


Ice Queens

by likeadeuce



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Ensemble Cast, F/F, Fort Briggs, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Hockey, Mustang's Team, Whiskey & Scotch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-23 23:48:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8347588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: The Fort Briggs versus East City intersquad ice hockey game gives Amestris's two most impressive blondes a chance to get to know each other.  Complications ensue.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pantsoffdanceoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantsoffdanceoff/gifts).



> This is basically manga canon compliant, though I'm ignoring details like whether the Elrics should have met the Fort Briggs Team, or who exactly knows that Alphonse doesn't have a body, or whether it makes any sense for ice hockey to be a thing in Amestris, or who's guarding the borders while the military's finest are focused on intramural sports. Details!
> 
> Thanks to Stultiloquentia and to Destroythemeek for being fantastic beta readers.

General Olivier Mira Armstrong stares down her aristocratic nose at Riza Hawkeye and says, “It seems that it’s come down to you and me.”

Riza vows not to let herself get pulled into those steel blue eyes, but she refuses to look away. “It seems that way.”

“So be it.” The general begins to wind her long blonde hair into a bun, which she ties off without visible use of any pins or elastics. Then she turns to the side and lowers her head enough that her aide, Major Miles, can help her into a helmet and face mask. When she looks back up, she fixes her glare on Colonel Mustang. “For the record, shootouts are a terrible way to decide a game.”

Mustang stands behind the bench. His colleagues are all decked out in hockey gear. They’ve been playing a fierce game over squad bragging rights for the last hour and more. He is wearing slacks and a dress shirt: a cream-colored silk one with a band collar, which has yet to show a drop of sweat. Of course, it’s cold in the rink, but he hasn’t shivered either. Riza can tell when Roy Mustang is having a good day, and this one qualifies.

“You say that now,” Roy muses, pushing hands deep into his pockets. “Now that your last shooter missed, and you’re down a goalie.” 

“I said it,” Armstrong spits back, “When we were negotiating the rules.”

“She did,” Miles confirms.

“But we have a deeper bench, and Miles thought I should be nice to you.”

“I thought we had better shooters.” Miles gives a shrug that tries to apologize to his commander and to the Mustang players he slighted at the same time. “I thought we could win _and_ go home early.” 

Armstrong shakes her head, furious. “If you want a thing done right. . .” She skates toward the goal, then glances at the opposite bench where her injured goalkeeper has put up his foot. Whirling back at Mustang, she jabs a finger. “If Buccaneer is broken, you _will_ sign off on me taking a soldier from your squad back to Briggs.” 

“Do you think she means that?” Lieutenant Havoc’s voice sounds behind Riza, more high and strained than usual. 

“Nah,” says Lieutenant Colonel Hughes, with the confidence of a man not subject to transfer orders from Mustang. Hughes pats Riza’s shoulder. “You ready, tiger?”

She musters a smile, grips her stick through padded gloves, and breathes deeply. “As ready as I’m getting. Colonel -- ahh, Coach?” Roy gives a nod, hands still in his pockets. She leans toward him. “Believe it or not, I feel better when you sweat a little.”

“With you on the ice?” He flashes her the smile that he has declared far too perfect to risk in the face of rock-hard vulcanized rubber. “How could I worry?”

Right. No big deal.. She’s just going to shoot against the Northern Wall of Briggs herself. 

Riza skates forward, building speed but not too much, pushing the puck with careful movements of her stick. She tries to visualize the steps in her head. It’s all about the eyes. The shooter and the goalie have to meet each other’s gaze, and not just for the sake of intimidation . The shooter has to look for where the puck has room to go in, but her eyes can’t give the direction away. Riza keeps her eyes steady on the general’s until she’s almost to shooting range. Then she pivots to look at the right side of the net, moves as though to shoot forehand. . . 

And Armstrong takes the bait. Just as she lunges to the right, Riza slides her stick in the other direction, one-handed, and sends the puck singing past her. 

Riza has built up speed as she skates, and she spins to the side and past the net, so she can’t see if the shot went in. Onlookers explode in joy, but Riza can’t tell which ones, or why. She glides back to the net and vaguely notes her own teammates rushing toward her.

“I made it then,” Riza pants, slightly dazed. 

Armstrong rises to her feet, rips off the helmet and glares. Suddenly Riza is face to face with the goalie she just won a game off of, who also happens to be the most formidable young officer in the Amestrian Army. “I fucking hate shootouts!” Armstrong yells, to everyone and no one. Then she registers Riza, meets her eyes, and says in a quieter, completely different voice, “Well played, lieutenant.”

They might be about to shake hands, but Riza won’t find out, because at that moment her teammates rush toward her, and wrap her into an all-encompassing hug. “Do you believe in miracles?” Hughes crows. She loses sight of General Armstrong while the winning squad lifts Riza onto their shoulders.

*  
The one bad thing about winning is that there’s no chance Riza will be able to sneak back to her quarters for a bath and a book. Riza’s been skating every day since Mustang and Armstrong came up with this “squad pride through healthy competition” scheme, on top of her regular duties. She’s in excellent shape, but she hasn’t logged this much ice time since she was a seventeen-year-old plebe getting a fun and easy P.E. credit. 

As the only woman among the junior officers on short term assignment to Central City, Riza has ended up with a private suite above the officers’ club, which comes equipped with a full-sized bathtub. Even if she weren't feeling aches in muscles she’d forgotten could hurt, Riza would be tempted to take a good long soak and pretend she couldn’t hear her phone ring.

After that win, though, there’s no chance she’s getting past the Club Dining Room. Cries of “Hip hip - Hawkeye!” and out-of-tune snatches of drinking songs rise from the motley group crowding the doorway. She waves and gives a resigned grin and. . .well, dammit, the whole thing is incredibly silly, but maybe it won't be so bad to bask in the warm glow of fellowship for a while.

“Thanks.” She gives fistbumps to Havoc and Braeda and Ross, ducks an enthusiastic hug from Hughes, and pats each of the Elric boys on one of their metal parts. “Really, it wasn’t that big of a deal.” 

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” sputters Edward. “Don’t get me wrong, Lieutenant, you did great but actually my shootout goal and Lieutenant Hughes’s count just as much as yours.”

“Brottttther,” protests Alphonse. “Don’t be rude to Miss Riza. Miss Riza, you were so good and so great. . .”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t good! I’m just pointing out, she got the game winner because she happened to go last. In a lot of ways the person who goes first is the one who needs to be the most reliable because. . .”

Hughes swats Edward on the head, not enough to hurt, just to make a (bigger) mess of his hair. “Ignore him, Reez. He’s just mad he can’t stay for the afterparty.”

“What? That’s bullshit. Why?”

“Because it’s in a bar. And you’re a kid.”

“So I’m old enough to play hockey but not drink?”

“Exactly,” says Hughes. “Not a hard concept.”

“Where the fuck is the Colonel?” Edward tries to press his way deeper into the bar, but Hughes is holding his shirt by the collar.

“Do me a favor tonight, Maes.” Riza leans toward Hughes for a rare deployment of his first name. “In honor of my victory, promise me I am _not_ in charge of keeping peace between Edward and the Colonel.” 

“I’m on it,” says Hughes. “Hand to heart. They’re all staying at my place tonight, so Gracia can help me wrangle them. She and Elycia might already be in--.” He looks into the dining room and says, “Hey, Peanut! Did you see Daddy win the game?” Hughes sprints inside, dragging Edward behind him.

Alphonse looks after them, then turns slowly toward Riza. “You won the game, Miss Riza.”

She smiles. “Thank you, Al. Though it was a team effort, and I would say it had more than a little to do with our goalie.”

“Oh, I just. . .kind of stood there.” In a near whisper he says, “Mr. Miles said it was okay, but I wasn’t sure General Armstrong would have agreed to the game if she had realized. . .”

If she had realized Roy wasn’t above putting a thirteen-year-old civilian on his payroll for a week if he happened to be shaped like an enormous suit of armor. Even Riza had no idea how Roy had explained this one. No matter. “Don’t put yourself down,” she tells Al. “You learned very fast and your talents are . . .unique.” She pats his metallic arm, which is still ice cold, and she’s about to make more conversation about the game when a voice rings through the lobby.

“Where is the woman of the hour?” Roy enters, waving a long-necked, square-bodied bottle over his head. He’s flanked by Major Miles and Armstrong, though it takes Riza a moment to register the Briggs officers in civilian dress. 

Or rather, Miles looks like himself in a turtleneck and dark glasses, but his commander has tied her shower-wet hair in a chignon, and she wears dark slacks and a loose-fitting button down in deep red. Perhaps it's meant to look like a man’s shirt, a gaudier version of the blousy uniforms, but Riza can see it’s tailored. It doesn’t hug her curves, but it isn’t meant to. Does the general even have curves, or is she straight and slender from shoulders to thighs so that. . .?

Riza doesn’t know why she’s suddenly thinking about the general’s curves. She notices attractive women, maybe as much as men, but the Wall of Briggs is more of an institution than a person. Maybe that’s what comes of beating someone at hockey. Or maybe she's thinking about Olivier Armstrong’s body because, out of uniform, the woman dresses in a way that orders people not to notice. Riza understands; right now she’s in a black jersey dress with long sleeves and a high collar: It’s warm, easy to slip in and out of in the locker room, and, if she ends up at a bar full of male officers, it won’t invite any particular comment. 

Roy is still waving the bottle. Armstrong follows it with her eyes, as though it might go flying. Braeda and Havoc nudge Riza forward, and Roy presses the bottle into her hands. “The victor belongs to the spoils. Or. . .” He snaps his fingers. “Something like that. The point is, you’re our MVP. General Armstrong and I had a little side bet, and this is . . .”

He gestures to Armstrong, who lets out a demonstrative sigh and says, “Thirty year single malt. From the distillery on Aristides Armstrong’s ancestral lands. I truly hope someone on your squad has a palate on which this will not be utterly wasted.” 

It strains Riza’s patience a little, to keep a smile on her face, but she says, “I do enjoy a good whiskey, thank you.” 

Roy nods toward Armstrong. “I like to reward my best people.”

Braeda stage whispers to Havoc, “He likes his drinks with fruit and a couple tablespoons of sugar, is what he means.”

“Excuse me,” says Mustang.

“Hey Roy,” Hughes calls out, emerging from the bar. “Appletinis are half price, I’ll buy you two.”

“Well timed,” says Havoc.

“That is definitely how you get the Colonel’s attention in a crowd,” says Riza, though she makes sure she already has the whiskey bottle well in hand before teasing him.

“Very well,” Roy says, with his usual aggrieved look dialed up to eleven, no doubt, because he has a fresh audience in the Briggs officers. "I like a drink that tastes good.” He points at the bottle in Riza’s hand. “That stuff tastes like poison mouthwash. No offense to the general’s illustrious forebears.”

“None taken,” Armstrong drawls. 

“But the important thing is, Hawkeye likes it. Meanwhile, I am going to get . . . “ But Gracia Hughes has exited the restaurant, arm firmly entwined with her husband’s. “Home with my friends. Where we’ll have a nightcap once the children are sleeping.” He waves his hand to encompass the two Elric boys along with Elycia, who is snuggled cozily in Alphonse’s arms.

“Fuck you,” sulks Edward.

“I don’t really sleep,” apologizes Alphonse. 

Gracia leans forward to touch Roy’s shoulder. “We’ll figure it out,” she promises. “It’s nice to see everyone.” She gives a polite smile to Armstrong and Miles, whom she hasn’t officially met, but it’s evident she’s ready to get everyone out the door. For a moment the group instinctively bows to her maternal authority.

“I get the hint,” Roy says. “We’re out of here.” With a final nod directly at Riza, he says, “Have a good time. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Feeling her privileged status of the moment, Riza raises an eyebrow and says, “Paperwork?”

This gets smirks and ‘ohhhhs’ from the rest of the Mustang team. Miles coughs into his hand. Armstrong’s expression remains stiff, but her eyes flick toward Riza.

Hughes guffaws. “That was good. I was going to go with ‘Wear white shoes after Founder’s Day’ but yours is better.”

“Very well,” Roy says, in the faux-long-suffering way he uses to turn jokes at his expense into a sign of his own good humor. He waves over his shoulder, not looking back at the rest of the squad on his way out.

Riza turns to her remaining teammates. “If you all want to share some of this --” Riza points to the bottle, then awkwardly faces Miles and the general. “And of course, I know it was yours in the first place, but if you want to join us -- “

“I don’t drink,” says Miles.

“I’m not dressed for the Officers’ Club, anyway.” Armstrong emphasizes _I_ , but it’s hard to escape the insinuation that only Riza is half presentable; the others are in rumpled civvies they changed into after the game, and everyone’s hair is wet from the showers. 

Riza’s manners kick in, even though it means abandoning her bath and book fantasy, and she says, “I have a suite upstairs. It would be a tight fit but I’m sure we could all manage.”

“Miles and I appreciate the kind offer,” says General Armstrong. “Of course, I have a larger suite.”

*  
It’s not the celebration any of them anticipated, but between naked curiosity and the chance to rub shoulders with one of the Army’s elite, no lieutenant is going to turn down a personal invitation from the country’s youngest and most aristocratic major general. 

Riza was so pleased with the small private quarters she got to use for a few days. Hah. Armstrong has a top floor sitting room with a skylight, a fireplace, and deep, soft carpet. Portraits of Armstrong ancestors that Riza remembers from her schoolbooks line the walls. As the four lieutenants enter, flanked by Miles, the general gives them a bored approximation of a tour. “My great-uncle endowed the building, as you know. It’s simplest to use it, when I am in Central for a short time, rather than disrupt the routine of my parents’ household. If you’d like to sit and have a drink --” 

Havoc, Braeda, and Ross claim chairs around the edge of the room. Before Riza can follow, the general takes the prize-winning whiskey from her hand and sets it on top of an oak liquor cabinet. “Don’t bother with the trash I gave Mustang. I have a much better one here.” She produces a glass and a new bottle, and offers them to Riza. “Since you’re the connoisseur you can try it first, see if it’s worth wasting on the rest of you.”

Miles gives a pained, apologetic smile to the others in the room, and Riza makes a note to assure him, later, that they all know what it’s like to stand there while a commanding officer says appalling things. Roy is usually leading up to something when he acts like that, and she assumes the general is now, too. 

“How do you take it?” Armstrong’s eyes stay on Riza. “Rocks?”

“Neat, please. I think we’ve all had enough ice for tonight.”

“Some of us more than others of you.” A smile tugs the corner of Armstrong’s mouth as she pours the dark amber liquid. When she hands Riza the glass, their fingertips touch. The general’s hand, stripped of its customary white glove, appears delicate. Her nails, though short, are shaped and painted while Riza’s are blunt and unvarnished: the glamor of the sword versus the utility of the pistol. 

“Thank you,” says Riza. She sniffs the smoky vapor that rises off the glass, a sensation she knows is as important as the taste. Once she’s absorbed it, she takes a small sip into her mouth and lets it sit on her tongue to savor it properly. Then Armstrong says -- speaking to the room, but eyes resting on Riza -- “So which of you will be returning to Briggs with me?”

If the point is to catch Riza mid-sip, so that she wastes the expensive drink and ruins her dress at once -- well, drinking good whiskey in the proper way requires discipline, and the trick doesn’t work. Riza keeps her lips closed, her jaw tight, and holds the liquid for a long moment before swallowing. It burns its way down her throat, but it’s a good burn.

If the point is to test Riza’s discipline, she is passing. 

“Now, General,” she answers evenly. “As I understand, we won the bet. I’m sorry Captain Buccaneer was hurt, but it’s part of the game. And I’d hardly blame Edward for using his automail, since the Captain has his own.”

“Captain Buccaneer is in fine condition,” says Miles. “I spoke to him before we came over.”

Armstrong pivots toward her aide. “Whose side _are_ you on, Miles?” 

“Yours, ma’am. Always. But Briggs isn’t -- pardon me -- but it isn’t so terrible you need to use it as a threat.”

“Besides," Riza says, looking at the general. “You talk a big game, but you don’t want somebody on your staff if you have to coerce them into being loyal.”

Riza may have overstepped. It is one thing for Miles to contradict his immediate superior -- formidable as she is, it’s no secret he keeps the gears of her office running smoothly, and that level of competence carries privilege. But Riza is still only a first lieutenant. She doesn’t really know this woman at all. Quiet hangs over the room.

Then Armstrong throws her head back and laughs. “Not one of you can take a joke. I’m sure it’s your upstart Colonel’s fault. Please. Let us all be friends, and have a drink.”

*

The evening wears on, and the general’s bottle empties out despite Riza whispering to Havoc and Braeda: “Sips, not shots.” 

Riza isn’t drunk, herself, but she feels light-headed and a bit distant from the scene. At one point, Miles brushes by and whispers in her ear, “Olivier’s very impressed with you, you know?”

“Oh,” she says, “I guess that’s good?” Miles lets out a startled laugh, and Armstrong -- after drinking the general’s ancestral whiskey, is it safe to think of “Olivier”? -- looks their way.

“Of course it’s good.” Miles gives Riza an assessing look, trying to work out why she’s not over the moon about being singled out for special notice. She might even tell him, if she had a good answer. The truth is, she’s not sure yet.

Riza doesn’t have Roy’s habit of working out all the angles and agendas to be ten steps ahead of everyone in the room -- a habit she privately thinks is sixty percent paranoia and thirty percent boredom, anyway. Everybody has an agenda, but most of them don’t matter very much. Riza saves her energy for pulling the signal out of the background noise. 

“Miles, do you mind?” Olivier looms above them. Miles rises, bows, and lets the general have his seat. He raises his eyebrows at Riza, then moves away to start a conversation with Maria Ross.

Olivier sips her drink in silence, leaving it to Riza to speak first. She goes with the obvious. “Have you always played ice hockey, or is it something you picked up in the North trying not to get cabin fever?”

“We don’t lack for activity at Fort Briggs. But during some of the warmer months, we take to the frozen water basin and engage in healthy competition. Briggs soldiers pride ourselves on our skill in this area. As I am certain your colonel was aware when he raided every neighboring division, alchemy school, and passing circus in order assemble his team. But I don’t care about that.” 

“Clearly.”

“He didn’t have to cheat to put you on his roster, Riza. May I call you Riza? You’re a natural.” 

“Not especially natural, no. I’m in good shape, I’ve been practicing all week, and I played a lot when I was a kid.” 

“Let me guess.” Armstrong leans closer as she speaks. Her shirt is no longer buttoned up to the neck, though it’s still loose enough to be unrevealing -- and Riza is thinking about what’s under Olivier Armstrong’s clothes for the second time tonight. “You wanted to play with the boys, so you worked twice as hard and put in twice the hours. Is that the way it was, Riza?” 

“I went to a girls’ school, actually,” she answers. “The headmistress had strong beliefs that women should cultivate our minds and our bodies. Ice hockey wasn’t on the curriculum, but the pond on my father’s land froze in the winter. The field hockey team would put on skates and run some brutal scrimmages. Some boys wanted to play and we usually let them.” She bites back a smile, remembering the time Roy showed up with figure skates. “But we mostly competed among ourselves.”

“Fascinating. After that beginning, Riza, how did you end up in such a boys’ club as the Amestrian military?”

“Well, Olivier. I suppose High Command isn’t nearly as enlightened as my headmistress.”

“Touché.” Olivier raises her glass and smiles, not at all put out by Riza’s use of her name.

“You never told me how you started playing.”

“I didn’t.” Olivier stands. “I suppose we’ll have to talk more later.” 

*

The party breaks up well before midnight: Havoc, Braeda, and Miles are headed for the men’s dorms, and offer to walk Ross to her city apartment. As they’re gathering their coats, Olivier looks at Riza. “Wait a moment and I’ll give you a good whiskey to take home. You did win one from me fair and -- well, never mind. But I’m a woman of my word, and I’ll make sure you leave with your prize.”

“Do you want us to wait?” Ross asks.

Riza thinks it over, but no. If Oliver has something to say to her in private, Riza is intrigued enough to listen. “I’m just down the stairs and in the other wing,” she tell Ross. “I promise I can stumble back myself.” 

Olivier closes the door. “I didn’t keep you back because I imagine you care about my liquor.”

Riza steps back and crosses her arms over her chest. “If you want me alone and drunk so I’ll betray Mustang’s deep secrets, I’ll save you time. He doesn’t know anything that matters.” Riza hates saying this, honestly. Not because it’s a betrayal of her superior -- it plays into the image Roy wants to project to the world -- but because it’s mostly true. She’s worn out by all the games; so much noise, so little signal. “Whatever politics you and Roy are playing, Olivier, the stakes are incredibly small. You’re better than that.”

A slow smile spreads over Olivier’s face as Riza speaks. Olivier glances down at Riza’s crossed arms, and Riza begins to feel silly about her own defensive posture. 

“I fear,” says Olivier, “that you have utterly mistaken the nature of my interest in you. Which is odd because -- I do not think I’ve mistaken the nature of your interest in me. I’ve been watching you all evening, and I’ll bet another 30-year single malt that you weren’t entirely focused on politics or hockey.”

Riza meets Olivier’s eyes, and and the whole scene slides into focus. “You’re right,” she says, “I have been thinking all night that I want to know what you look like without your shirt on.”

“There now.” Olivier steps forward, undoes the buttons and lets the shirt fall off her shoulders. She isn’t wearing a bra, and she exposes pale breasts with small pink nipples. “Is this what you imagined?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’ll need a better look.” Riza places a hand on Olivier’s shoulder, and a bare breast presses into the collar of Riza’s dress as she raises her mouth for a kiss. Olivier is much taller, and when Riza stands on her toes, that ache from skating rushes back through her thighs.

Pulling away, she says, “That tiny suite they gave me has a huge bathtub. I don’t suppose you have a bigger one?”

*

In the morning, Riza’s thighs still ache from skating. But the soreness mixes with the echo of stronger, more surprising sensations, and she’s ready for another day.


End file.
